The School on a Hill
by zoophagous
Summary: John Watson is sent off to boarding school to stop him from "going astray" like his sister did. In the forest at the bottom of the hill, he meets a fascinating boy who had saved his life months before, and the adventure begins in the fields of Kent!
1. The Accident at the Swimming Pool

Mr and Mrs Watson were shouting again. And Harry just stood there, taking it all in with her eyes wide and incredulous. "Put your shoes on, John, we're going out." She said bluntly, not taking her eyes from the incandescent parents who appeared to be turning a delicate shade of purple.

When John did not reply, Harry shot her stare over her shoulder, her eyes deeply embedded within her skull and dark rings pulsating around them in pure rage, "Now!" she screamed. Not wanting to be beaten to a pulp, John grabbed pulled on his ragged shoes and ran out the door as fast as he could, avoiding his parents' disbelieving glare.

* * *

><p>"Those fucking arseholes! How <em>dare<em> they tell me who I can and cannot go out with! Clara is far more decent than any of my old "boyfriends"; but since she doesn't have a fucking dick that makes her wrong? Those fucking homophobes; I can't believe them!" Harry screamed, ripping her sandy hair from it's roots until the large clumps entwined in her fingers convinced her to stop. She dropped the the strands onto the pavement and lit a cigarette, puffing away angrily.

John silently retrieved a damp old shopping bag from the neighbors hedge and threw a consoling arm around his sister's back.

* * *

><p>Harry didn't come to the swimming pool with John as she usually did. Whenever either of them wanted to escape their up-tight parents, they'd grab their swimming costumes from a bush and sneak off to be children again. "I've got to see Clara, see how her parents reacted… Sorry John."<p>

John stood in his crusty trunks, awkwardly folding his arms across his chest and scanning the pool to see if he knew anyone there. _Nope. _ Although one person did catch his eye: a strange, dark figure, lying on their back in the deep end. They were too far away for John to make out, but he assumed it was a boy, late teens (probably) with a big clump of dark hair.

With a loud splash, John plummeted from the diving board. He wasn't a good swimmer; he'd only had a few lessons when he was younger and he was the slowest out of his friends, but he adored it none the less. The slightly-too-cold water cleansed his mind each time he swam, shutting down his body and numbing out his thoughts. John would hold his breath for as long as he could; submerged, listening the deep thuds and pulse of the water, before flicking his "curtains" (as his friends called his un-boyishly long hair cut) out of the water, flicking tiny droplets onto the faces of agitated parents and bemused children. He'd suck in as much air as he could before diving off on laps until he thought he was going to faint.

After 10 or so minutes of these childish games, John stopped ignoring everyone and began the next stage: people watching. He pulled his body down until his upper lip was resting gently on the cool water and the waves splashing lightly on his cheeks, pushing him back against the bumpy wall of the pool.

He watched the "fat club" waddle into the water and then awkwardly stand waist deep, nervously glancing around to see if their weight loss instructor was watching them "exercise", but he never was; the 17 year old girls in their skimpy bikinis were clearly far more interesting to the lazy bastard. John looked away from the man, disgusted. _You're old enough to be their father!_

Next, John looked over to the group of 9 year olds splashing water in each others' eyes with gleeful smiles. He looked at one of the girls, self consciously covering her body with little arms, she was (purposely) slightly too far away from her friends to be involved in their games. He sighed pitifully.

* * *

><p>John bobbed in the pool for an immeasurable amount of time, finally deciding to get out when his prune fingers had crinkled beyond a healthy level. <em>One last dunk<em>, John allowed himself, plunging into the water, scraping his knees on the bottom before wriggling along the floor like an ungraceful dolphin. He swam to the deep end and looked up; there was that boy again. John was puzzled at how he could possibly had not seen him while observing his fellow swimmers earlier? _I guess he just blends in? He is pretty damn pale…_

John was fascinated by this boy, who clearly had not moved since John had arrived. The boy had a long, but not awkward, icy white body, sculpted with a thin coating of muscle and protruding bones. He floated limply in the water, and if John hadn't know better, he would have thought he was dead.

His back had a worrying amount of messy, white scars that twinkled in the glassy water. _Accidental scars, probably from falling off things and generally being rather clumsy,_ John noticed; he had been on quite a few medical training courses (although university was still a good few years away) and he had been taught how to recognize different types of scars.

The strange boy wore expensive black swimming trunks that contrasted greatly with his snowy body. He had a thick mop of curly dark hair that moved in synchronization with the gentle ripples and he really did look rather dashing.

John was torn from his admiration of this creature violently: a water filter had managed to swallow his hair and was holding him down to the bottom of the pool. Shit. _Shit. Fuck. _John desperately needed air but he was being held as an invisible prisoner to this _fucking _machine that was actually killing him. John couldn't believe it: he was drowning! He felt his throat cease up and his face turn crimson, blood was heavily coursing through his head and he could almost feel it pouring out of his ears and into the dark water, life being sucked out of his, now blue, lips. His eyes began to strain under the pressure and he_ let go_. Water slammed through his mouth and forced it's way down his throat, tearing at his delicate lungs. John was in agony, and then it began to fade. The light slipped from his eyes and his minded was subdued into a state of complete submission.

A pair of strong, muscular and yet _so very thin_ hands strongly grasped the limp body that rested peacefully on the floor. Sherlock Holmes shoved an arm around waxy ribs and with the other hand ripped the sandy hair from the filter. A lot of hair was torn from the poor boy's scalp and a small quantity of blood was dancing through the water.

As soon as Sherlock had stolen the unconscious limbs, he darted back to the surface urgently where a life guard who had only just realized what had happened grabbed the body off of him and quickly began to perform CPR. Sherlock watched intently, hearing water slosh around inside the short boy's chest that shuddered under every compression.

Finally, the lad vomited up water all over the lifeguard, spluttering and coughing, colour returning to his cheeks and life slowly restoring itself in his still distant eyes that seemed to have locked on Sherlock. He promptly kneeled next to the injured, staring back into those hazy eyes and deemed the boy safe. He rose elegantly and tied a towel around his waist, hurrying out of the immediate area and leaving the sports centre as soon as possible, a faint smile flickering on his lips


	2. John Watson Arrives

_Jesus._ John staggered out of his parents' sweaty and scratched car, clutching a big, black trunk filled with cheap clothes, his father's old laptop, a few bags of crisps and a second hand pair of expensive school uniform. He felt unbelievably inadequate, wearing a baggy jumper that fell well below his hips and cheap jeans that had once clung tightly to his legs but after his recent weight loss, hung loosely around his calves.

His parents stood next to him, also awe-struck at the pure beauty they had come to. Behind the family there were vast, colourful fields that seemed to roll out into infinity - dotted with sheep and cottages that were only separated by hundred year old stone barriers. And then there was the school: a perfectly preserved, pale stately home that was quite possibly the most beautiful thing John Watson had ever seen.

Ancient oaks surrounded the long gravel path leading up to a grand, wooden door held open by men in black suits. Rose vines climbed up the wall and tangled themselves delicately around the windows. The building was five floors high and so long that it blocked the horizon directly in front of the Watsons.

In the middle of the gravel car park -currently filled up with sleek sports cars and vintage vehicles- there was a large fountain of an angel with water elegantly flowing out of her palms. Posh little boys and suave young men gracefully stepped out of their cars and confidently strode towards the mansion, followed by… butlers?… carrying multiple trunks, no doubt full of expensive suits and The Very Best Things Daddy Could Afford.

Obviously, the Watsons were not wealthy in the slightest, but after Mrs Watson's mother had died last January, a very large sum came their way to pay for the very best education money could buy; the parents were determined that John should not go the same way as his sister -an abandoned, drug using alcoholic at the young age of 17-, they spent their every last penny to send him away to St. Bartholomew's Boarding School.

"Wow… This is… absolutely wonderful," the words were coming extremely slowly out of John's gaping mouth, his neck strained up at the exquisite structure before him.

"Yes… it is, isn't it? Well, John, we have a very long journey back and must set off now…" a lie, it was a two hour drive from London and it was currently four o'clock in the afternoon, "E-mail us tonight about how you're settling in," John embraced his parents absentmindedly, his heart thumping up against their chests, "See you in a few weeks, John."

The old Vauxhall pulled away and crunched back up the gravel path, heading back to the real world, while John was left in this terrifying fairy tale. First day of Year 10, and he was the poor new kid and had already received countless sniggers from the rich snobs and one Year 7 had even kicked gravel at him! John pulled his sleeves over his hands and latched onto his trunk, wobbling all the way up to his room.

* * *

><p>John dropped the large trunk on the floor and flopped onto the bed, looking up at the high ceiling. His bedroom wasn't quite as spacious as he had expected it to be, but it was lovely. It had crimson wall paper and a musky scent; there was 1950's desk, a fairly large bed, a wardrobe with a full-length mirror and a window facing out over the back of the school. From his window, he could see three large playing fields that sloped down into a forest, stretching as far as the eye could see with clumpy oaks and pine trees that danced in the wind. It was September and the delicate Autumn sunlight painted the world gold and warmed his cheeks; it made him so happy that when he was informed of dinner, he just sat on his window sill, dangling his legs over the edge and began drifting in and out of conscious thought.<p>

* * *

><p>His plans of hiding away in his beautiful little room was thwarted when a kind lady in her early 60's rapped on John's door, "Jonathan Watson? May I speak with you, please?" A weak little voice came from the other side. He put clambered back into the room and wrung his hands nervously as he went to fetch the door.<p>

"Hello, I'm Mrs Hudson and I'll be your Matron. I'll be here to help you with whatever you may need." The little lady stated proudly.

"Please, call me John," John smiled kindly at her, hoping greatly that she wouldn't send him off to the dining hall to sit with the rich kids that would surely spit in his food and do God knows what else that bored posh kids to do the newbies.

"The first day of school, especially as The New One, is very scary, I know my dear, but you have to eat," she empathized, but when she looked up -not very far up, mind you- she saw the terror building in John's hazel eyes, "never mind; if you're absolutely terrified, I won't tell anyone and you can miss it just this once; I'll bring you a cuppa and some biscuits!" Warmth poured out of her words and she hobbled off down the corridor.

That evening, after tea and biscuits with Mrs Hudson, John was feeling far less intimidated about his new home and was actually excited for the next day when he would get to properly experience the school.

* * *

><p>It was the very early hours of the morning and the rest of his dorm was already asleep, something John was still far from achieving. After the accident in the swimming pool a month prior, John had found it extremely challenging to sleep, and whenever he did, it was riddled with horrible nightmares. He often dreamt that he was in a dark room, unable to move and all he could see was a bright light that turned on and off in thick, deep pulses that burnt right through his skull, paralyzing him when he woke from it. John did not want that to happen tonight and he feared that it might, so he made a decision to go down to the forest and stay there 'til sunrise.<p>

John's bedroom was on the second floor of the building -about 3 metres elevated off the ground- which would have been a difficulty for most people, but John was unusually nimble on his feet and had a passion for climbing. On bad days he would swing up trees and drop leaves into the hair of unsuspecting couples, and on clear nights, he'd clamber out of his window and lie on his roof, looking up at the stars. Sure, he didn't know their names and he couldn't point out "Orion's Belt", but he still liked to stay there until he felt emotionally numb.

John was a very adventurous boy. Although he was very happy to sit with a book and a cup of tea, adventure and thrill made him far happier. His parents were very reserved and calm people, wanting John to settle into a good job as a doctor and live his life calmly and consistently. John didn't want to upset his parents as much as Harry did because he wasn't as sure of himself as Harry was and didn't think he could take it, disappointing his parents the way she did. So John had a plan: Army Doctor. He could keep his parents happy with a stable job and great qualifications, and he could run about having all the thrills he could dream of. It was _perfect._ But for the time being, John was a quiet and reserved boy, lusting after adventures in the night.

John grabbed onto the window sill and lowered his body over the edge until he found the sill below. He slipped down and left an inch or two of his window open. He glanced nervously into room that he was currently perched outside; curiously, this window was slightly open too and when he peered into the darkness, he could see that the messy room was also lacking an inhabitant. John sat there for a few seconds, examining the chamber in the moon light. It had the same basic layout as his, except this room had books strewn all over the shelves, maps pasted all over the wall, notes and letters like a second carpet, a ragged school uniform thrown on the bed, a _skull_ and an ash tray balancing precariously right next to his feet. _Jesus Chri-_

John's thought process was interrupted very suddenly and his heart froze. He saw a tall, dark figure in a long coat out on the field, padding slowly towards the forest at the end of the school premises. The longer John looked at this strangely familiar character, illuminated against the moon, the less intimidated he felt. It was, presumably, the student from this room, and he did seem to have similar interests to John, and maybe he could even make a friend. He realized that he could crouch here like a gargoyle forever or he could go down to the forest and meet this mystery man that he found so fascinating.

John jumped down from the ledge -now a safe height- and scampered nervously across the field, praying that no one would spot him.

After five minutes of cautious, animalistic movements, John finally reached the edge of the fields and looked down into the forest. It started out with widely spaced, gracious oaks and apple trees, then the spruces mixed in, creating a thicker and colder atmosphere, and that was as far as his eyesight could go in such conditions. _A bit scary. Could be dangerous._ John grinned, and with one last look up at the magnificent house, he sprung down the hill in search of the maniac.

John had barely reached the curtain of the trees when he heard a low, seductive voice purr from inside a hollow out oak, "Hello, John Watson."


	3. John meets Sherlock

Smoke trickled out of the boy's hiding place like an opium den. "Yes, hello there. Now tell me your name." John demanded, spinning so that he was facing the hole in the tree; it was too dark to have eye contact with the teen -he couldn't even make out his figure- but he stared in the right direction, hoping he wouldn't look too much of an idiot.

"Sherlock Holmes," offhandedly said the boy, leaning his head out of the tree. Sherlock's face and torso were illuminated by the gentle moon light; he had thick locks of curly dark hair, piercing pale blue eyes and a devious smile briefly flickered over his pale lips. John stared in disbelief at the obscurity of the boy; his face was so elegant and unconventional, his eyes were glowing with mischief and his collar bones seemed to be tearing their way out of his far-too-tight-shirt.

Sherlock, amused, watched the boy stare in disbelief. Maybe undoing a few buttons was a little over the top, but it was just so much fun to gauge his reaction. He scanned over John's body; _poor, military father, abandoned sibling, curious, neat, skipped dinner, quiet and… loyal?_ Sherlock deduced in mere seconds. "I see you've cut your hair since the accident: clearly a military career is in store." Sherlock sucked smoothly on the end of his cigarette, not breaking eye contact for a second.

"W-what?" John stammered. _Damn it, now I look sound like an idiot._

"I just noticed that since your little accident in the swimming pool your father cut your hair, obviously intending for you to follow his footsteps in the army." Sherlock exhaled in one smooth breath, as if these deductions were the simplest things in the world.

"How did you know about my acci-" John double took, "it was _you_ who saved my life?" John cried in disbelief, throwing his hands in the air.

"Well, obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes, this boy was_ boring_ him.

"Well, I'm sorry -I was just _a little distracted."_ He hissed through his teeth; John was obviously embarrassed, but thought it best to keep confident, otherwise this 'almighty' and 'powerful' _Sherlock Holmes_ may use him as a punching bag for his snide remarks and quick wit.

"I thought that you'd recognize me after such a long time that you spent gaping at my backside," Sherlock threw at him arrogantly.

"What? No, I wasn't-"

"I think the correct thing to say here would be 'Thank you for saving my life.' Is it not?" He was obviously getting angry, although the little smile he tried to suppress on his lips seemed to say he was enjoying this a lot more than he was letting on.

"Thank you." John sounded sarcastic and yet apologetic. This man did deserve his thank you, but he really didn't need to be so goddamn proud about the whole thing.

"Don't mention it." Sherlock lay back in his tree, hidden again. John stood awkwardly amongst the towering oaks; the leaves waltzed delicately in the soft breeze and little beams of starlight shone through the cracks. He was surrounded by thick, crusted trunks that stretched up like elephant legs, a thousand years of adventure etched upon their bark.

John's awe at the beauty around them was interrupted as a hand shot out of the hole, holding a half empty packet of cigarettes, "Care for one?" echoed through the carcass of the tree.

"Er, no thanks." John shivered, crossing his arms around his body. Maybe it was time to go back; he'd met the boy he had intended to, he'd distracted himself and now it was cold.

"If the wind is bothering you, there's plenty of room in here." Out came another cloud of smoke.

John was shocked, this boy who seemed to hate him was trying to convince him to stay? "I like looking at the stars." John lay down next to the tree, the wide leaves crunched beneath him.

* * *

><p>The pair sat in comfortably in silence, John admiring the sky and Sherlock smoking cigarette after cigarette. Time went by immeasurably, the sky did not lighten and the birds did not sing, the night seemed young and infinite. "Why did your parents disown your sibling?" Sherlock murmured softly after an hour or so.<p>

"She's gay." John shrugged, the leaves tickled his neck.

"Aren't you going to ask how I knew about your sibling?" Sherlock sounded puzzled, obviously everyone _always_ asked him.

"I knew that you were going to explain anyway," John smiled cheekily, "clever people are always so desperate to prove their intelligence. I doubt you even care about why my sister has been disowned."

"Of course I care." _Was that a hint of sarcasm? _John couldn't really tell, and this boy hardly seemed adapted to social customs, so he probably wouldn't recognize it himself. "And now I'm definitely not going to tell you."

"Okay. Please, Mr Holmes, please be kind enough to say how you worked out how I had an abandoned sibling." John definitely sounded sarcastic, but he doubted that Sherlock wouldn't pick up on it. And besides, John was curious to hear how he knew.

"Your clothes, both times I've seen you, have been old and cheap -family hasn't got much money, evidently- but you're being sent off to one of the most expensive schools in the country? Your parents are spending everything to preserve you, or stop you becoming something. If you were an only child, you would have been pampered with this sort of treatment -including nice clothes- since birth or at least the beginning of secondary school, but you obviously haven't, so something made your parents spend everything they had -and probably more, from a recently deceased relative, most likely- to keep you from becoming, or doing, whatever made them abandon their other child. But you couldn't have more than one sibling because your parents car was old and could only fit four people in it. And also, on your car, a sticker from a sixth form college had been torn off the bumper, probably in disgrace." Sherlock rattled, barely pausing to breathe. He finished and his triumph seemed to shine brighter that the stars.

"… Sherlock, how long have you been watching me for?" John sounded very nervous, but vaguely excited.

"I haven't been watching you. I _noticed_ you at the swimming pool, I _noticed _you this afternoon and I _noticed_ you about two hours ago as you followed me down here." He spat out the words, almost disgusted at the notion that he could actually be interested in John.

"Sorry, my mistake." John sounded, unintentionally, hurt. He fiddled with a twig, feeling every bump and crack, then held it deep in his palm, closing his fist around it and engulfed the feeling that he _owned_ the stick and that this beautiful piece of art was _his_, and then he felt calm. In this state of security, sleep tickled his eyelids and he drifted off.

* * *

><p>"Mrs Hudson will be waking up in five minutes and she <em>will<em> notice that you are not in your room. I'd head back now if I were you." Sherlock's foot nudged John's ribcage harder than necessary. The early morning sun shone through the branches and rested softly on the cheek bones of the gaunt boy towering over him. Sherlock's pale blue eyes were not _unkind_, but they were not comforting and John's feeling of security quickly vanished. Sherlock Holmes was not a villain, he was not going to hurt John, but Sherlock Holmes was not soft and he was not safe and _definitely _not trustworthy. John jumped onto his feet and nodded at the boy that stood considerably taller than himself and then ran off, back up to the school, leaving the elegant boy behind.

* * *

><p>Once John had climbed back into his bedroom, he heard a sweet voice call through the door, "Yoo-hoo, time to get up John!" and the little old lady tottered off down the corridor. John fell back onto his tidy bed and chuckled to himself: <em>what on Earth just happened?<em>


	4. Feral Cat

**Dear Lord, I am so so sorry that this has taken so bloody long! Really, I'm sorry! **

******I don't know where I'm going to go with this story, but I can assure you that there will be absolutely no smut whatsoever. For those of you who have read my "A Finer Education", I shall be updating this soon as well. **

**Once again, so sorry that this took so long and enjoy!**

* * *

><p>John had only gotten a few hours of sleep and the forest floor hardly gave him good quality rest; his back was aching, there were leaves nestled in his hair and his mouth tasted vaguely of mud. A splendid start to the year.<p>

He had forty-five minutes to get ready and appear neat and presentable at breakfast -which he still had to locate. Without further ado, John grabbed his musty old towel and budget shampoo and strode confidently out of his room into the noisy corridor.

Scattered about the hallway were boys of his age. Of course they all had different bodies and faces, no two looking alike, but every boy he could see possessed the same expression of contempt and playful disregard. This combined with the similar hair cuts, expensive pyjamas, bellowing posh accents and proud postures made the boys blend in together perfectly, making John stick out like a sore thumb. And everyone noticed. Everyone who actually noticed the boy gave him an act of disapproval: some sniggered, some looked him up and down with a smirk, a few rolled their eyes and one boy shoved into him in the queue for the showers and spat in his face, "you don't _fucking_ belong here, piss."

After a quick shower under tepid water, John rushed back to his room to escape the boys' abuse. The shower had been bad enough.

* * *

><p>"<em>Oi homo, are you fucking watching me shower? Yeah, piss, I'm talking to you." John had looked the boy straight in the eyes, taking care to make sure that his gaze didn't deviate, and strongly denied the false accusation. "Yeah, well don't fucking look at me again, piss. We don't appreciate shirt-lifters around here are you'll get yourself into some proper trouble if you aren't careful with those wandering little eyes of yours." <em>

"_I'm not a 'shirt-lifter'." John stated, keeping his eyes firmly locked with the other boy's, attempting dominance with a military stance. He was medium height and had an angular face; his dark hair (when dry) had a neat middle parting and a small fringe was greased behind his ears like curtains. The Anderson boy had a sarcastic, nasal voice that made John's blood curdle with disgust._

* * *

><p>John shook his hair dry and pulled on the second hand uniform; sharp black trousers, a smooth grey v-neck and a sleek black tie. For formal occasions, John had to wear an expensive black blazer with the school crest on it. Since the uniform was so expensive, his parents opted on a previously owned set that hung loosely from his small frame, subsequently drowning his sturdy figure and making him look lost and vulnerable. <em>God, the bullies are going to <em>love _this. _John tried to smarten himself up, straightening out his clothes and fiddling with his hair, just to pass the time. He knew the bullies would come to him, no matter how symmetrical his hair was; he dropped back onto the bed with a huff and knit his eyebrows together; _how on Earth am I going to survive three years of my life here?_

The morning passed quickly, albeit uneventful. The breakfast was cheap and nasty -thick oil and grease coated the hot meal and the milk for cereal tasted processed and budget- John had exchanged brief pleasantries with a boy called Stamford. He was nice enough but a little boring, not to mention he ate far too much of the pungent bacon and beans.

The teachers were smart and well dressed, but they obviously hated the students and droned on and on with no passion whatsoever, except for when shouting at the boys that seemed to be constantly talking over them. The work was hard and John seemed to be the only one actually bothering with it; _I guess money doesn't make you clever, then. _The classrooms were old but were filled with useless high-tech gadgets that they obviously never used; every feature of the rooms screamed 'unnecessary', leaving John feeling isolated and intimidated.

Finally, the bell for lunch rang and John shoved his way through the corridors with the stampede of other boys. He could no longer bear the constant exposure to posh, nasal voices that seemed to have an unlimited stream of vulgar banter; he _had_ to get away from them.

* * *

><p>He stumbled back into his room, flung his bag onto his bed and sat on the floor, wallowing in self-pity. Life here was hell. <em>Just because Harry's gay doesn't mean that I am! Dammit, why should I have to suffer just because she likes girls? This is completely unfair. <em>John had been trying his very best to engulf himself completely in the work so that he wouldn't notice the snide remarks and glares shot at him, not to mention, the adrenaline from meeting Sherlock had worn off a long time ago and now it was just agony being this hated.

John clambered out his window once more. He dared not look into Sherlock's room on his journey down, fearing the boy was in there, but he swore he heard a deep chuckle as he descended. He sprinted across the pitch quickly and hoped that no one would notice him. John ventured a little deeper into the forest and found a lovely, twisting horse chestnut tree that he could climb up with little difficulty. Once a good four metres off the ground, he rested on a thick branch and dangled his legs like a child. The Autumn sun trickled through the canopy and warmed his cheeks, the colourful leaves swayed lightly in the breeze and the soft song of the birds echoed through the valley, mixing delicately with the gentle hum of nature. John's thoughts flowed in synchronization with his breaths and swayed there, undisturbed.

* * *

><p>John knew it was nearing the end of lunch as he had already spend about an hour up there. Just as he was about to start climbing down, he heard the hushed rustle of leaves and uneven footsteps of someone only metres away. <em>Oh God, if I get caught up here I'll get in so much trouble. Jesus, I'm a dead man! <em>His heart began to beat frantically and his breaths shallowed, adrenaline was pumping through his veins and he just knew that he was screwed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's hunt for rats and other specimens wasn't going so well. He had only another 10 minutes before he had to go back for lessons and he didn't have a single rodent! It would be moronic to try and catch one in the dark and he wouldn't be able to complete his latest experiment if he didn't have a body to test the acid on. Slowly, he straightened his back from his cat-like stance and looked up to see what on <em>Earth<em> had been dropping little pieces of… conker?… into his hair. Maybe a squirrel? Perhaps he could use the squirrel? Hmm, even Sherlock felt uncomfortable catching and killing a completely (well, fairly) innocent creature. Especially as he had a soft spot for squirrels, there was something just so cheeky and mischievous about them that he ador-

_Okay, not a squirrel. But John Watson sitting in a tree is at least vaguely interesting._

* * *

><p><em>Okay, what on in God's name is Sherlock Holmes doing? Goddamn <em>scampering_ and _prowling _like some kind of cat amongst the leaf drifts? _Quickly, John took advantage of the situation and plucked a conker from the branch hanging by his face; it wasn't quite ripe yet so he sliced it open with the pen knife his father had given him and picked out little chunks to drop onto his victim's unsuspecting head.

It was absolutely worth the green gunk now embedded under his stubby nails to see the confusion, anger and then amusement plastered across the tall boy's face. "John Watson?" He shielded his eyes from the sunlight with a pale, spidery hand, "What in God's name are you doing up there?" but he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice and his austere facial expression faltered before a weak smile danced over the corners of his lips.

"Oh, er-" John genuinely didn't know why he was currently sitting in a tree dropping conker pieces on someone he barely knew's head. "I don't really know. I guess the posh kids were getting to me." He mumbled, embarrassed that he was admitting this to a person like Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled deeply, "Not very soldier-esque of you; there's far worse on the battlefield than a few rich idiots." He now seemed serious.

"I wasn't trying to impress you. And I'm not going to be a soldier." John turned his face into the sunlight and squinting, looking a bit like an angry child. "And anyway, why were you prowling around like a feral cat?" John liked that description; Sherlock was very much a feral cat. The way he stalked about gracefully and yet deviously, his knotted and wild hair, his thin and feline eyes that glinted with mischief, and so much wisdom.

"I was looking for a rat." Sherlock huffed, obviously he had not been successful in his endeavors. _Oh my God, he actually is a cat!_

"Why did you want a rat?" John was utterly confused. Obviously, he wasn't actually a cat but he was most definitely acting like one.

"_Do_ want a rat. I still need one for my experiments." Sherlock grinned, "I'm seeing how long it takes for whiskers to decompose."

John was horrified! "For God's sake! Sherlock, why on earth do you need to know that?" John all but screeched.

Sherlock was baffled, "Why not?" he could not comprehend why someone should _not_ demand the knowledge of the decomposition rate of rat whiskers.

"You're ridiculous." John slapped his head into his hands, shaking it slowly. This man was utterly insane. "You can't just go around killing animals to see how fast they decompose! That's exactly how serial killers start out!"

"What? And you know a lot about them, do you? I've been studying serial killers for years and that is an urban myth. Just because I experiment on animals doesn't mean I'm going to start harvesting up humans. I think I know more about killers that _you_." Sherlock snorted arrogantly.

"You're still a teenager! You aren't a child prodigy, you haven't gone to university early to _study_ serial killers. Reading about them online doesn't make you any more knowledgeable on them than the rest of us." John couldn't believe that someone could think they were so much bloody better than the rest of humanity!

"I'll have you know that I am, in fact, a genius. I've been _tested_. We're not all idiots like yourself." Sherlock spat at him, utter disgust written over his face. John was taken aback by the sheer ferocity that rippled from the boy's throat, almost a snarl. And with that he swiftly clambered down the tree and walked straight up to Sherlock, his face so close that he could smell the cigarettes in his breath and feel the cold eminating from his icy white skin.

"I am _not_ an idiot and I am _going_ to be a fucking doctor -not a mindless soldier- I'll have you know!" He pressed ever so slightly closer to the far taller boy before turning on his heels and pacing angrily back up to the school. He didn't know why he had lied to Sherlock about not being in the army; that was what he wanted to do, was it not? And wasn't he proud that one day he'd wield a Browning L9A1 and camo-gear? He most definitely was, but he didn't like the way Sherlock looked at him whenever he spoke of the army. It was angry, arrogant and the tiniest bit sad.

"Daddy won't be impressed, will he? His only son _disappointing _him, just as his daughter did. How _embarrassing."_ Sherlock called out to him, knowing that this would really hit John's nerves. John fought the urge to turn around right there and slam a punch into that pathetic cat's face. How _dare _he bring his family into this! But John took the upper road and increased his speed; he really didn't need a bad reputation on his first day of school


End file.
